


Something Wicked, Something Kind

by Anonymous



Category: Star Wars - All Media Types, Star Wars Episode VII: The Force Awakens (2015)
Genre: Alpha/Beta/Omega Dynamics, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Bounty Hunter Armitage Hux, Canon-Typical Violence, Implied/Referenced Child Abuse, Kylo Ren Has Issues, M/M, Murder Husbands, Omega Armitage Hux, Sexual Abuse, Unresolved Sexual Tension, Verbal Humiliation
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-05-18
Updated: 2017-05-18
Packaged: 2018-11-02 01:43:12
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,187
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10934382
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/
Summary: Kylo Ren is twenty-seven when he falls in love with the most beautiful, spiteful, wicked Omega in the Galaxy.Armitage Hux is thirty-two when he finally gets what he's always desired; a powerful Alpha willing to die for his approval.





	Something Wicked, Something Kind

**Author's Note:**

  * For [solohux](https://archiveofourown.org/users/solohux/gifts).



> Lottie, this is for you!
> 
> I know you get down about your writing sometimes and I do too. I'm a dreadful writer, honestly. And I constantly question whether people think I'm disgusting or dislike me. Anxiety is horrible to deal with, but I just wanted to say you're not alone. I reread your fics constantly. I love them all. And I'm not generally even a fan of A/B/O.
> 
> Which brings me to this. The first A/B/O work I've ever written, which... oh goodness. I'm sure it's awful, I really am. But I hope you enjoy it. You're such a nice person and I love your A/B/O, especially your Omega Hux, and you inspired me to actually post this thing which I... really didn't even plan on writing. I hope you know that you have a fan out here, among many others, who enjoys what you do in this fandom and understands what it's like to feel uncertain. Because I really just adore you, even though we've hardly spoken! <3

Armitage Hux is fourteen years old when he experiences his first heat.

He is in attending a lecture at the Academy, hunched over a desk and scribbling notes down onto his datapad in a frenzy, determined to take note of everything that the Major has said. Sweat is building along the line of his brow, the tender nape of his neck, and he fidgets nervously in his seat, the stylus shaking between the lax grip of his fingers. He presses a hand to his forehead, trying to quell the fever that seems to bloom through his cheeks, burrowing deep inside his sickly veins as he stills, rigid.

Only when he shifts does he feel the slickness gathered at the apex of his thighs, soaking through the material of his grey trousers, the prim press of his uniform suddenly too tight, too stifling.

Armitage cannot help letting a fervent, surprised cry from slipping free of his throat, which feels constricted and dry, his windpipe quivering and voice falling silent within the purse of his soft lips. Hands fist in the fabric which clings a bit too much to his soaked flesh, his eyes flitting to the time signature in the corner of his ‘pad before his brain goes numb and static rings low in his ears.

_ Heat, please, need mate, need to be-- need…  _

With a burning, bright red face, and a pair of hazy, distant jade eyes, Armitage has only a second to pull himself up from his chair before he is dropping, falling down, down,  _ down  _ into a dead faint on the steps.

 

* * *

 

 

Since Armitage Hux was a young boy, he had known of his father’s distaste for him. His frail, skinny limbs, paper-white skin, the slight form that had only grown more reedy with age-- signs of weakness. Signs of inadequacy. Signs of  _ failure.  _

Brendol compared him to a thistle, once, endlessly growing upward, sprouting even when he shouldn’t, soft-looking and yet covered in thorns because of his impudent, irreverent behavior. In some ways, Armitage supposes, that was the closest thing to a compliment his father had ever allowed him-- the unwanted thorn in Brendol’s side, growing to surpass him in spite of his poor heritage.

At least, he thinks, he knows now why Brendol always hated his appearance. Why he always called Armitage  _ weak,  _ and  _ complacent,  _ and told him to stop crying, to hide his emotions with scorn instead of allowing them to spill over as his genes demanded.

_ Omega.  _ A term synonymous with weakness, a label that, in spite of his father’s decision to raise a military leader, showed the true purpose of his life: to be mated, bred and forced to bear children.

“Just like that pathetic whore you called a mother,” Brendol muttered, staring at Armitage from over the sharp corner of his book, his gaze callous and demeaning. “I should have you sewn up so you don’t whelp the same way she did--sterilize you for the good of the other Cadets. An  _ omega.”  _ He scoffed, shutting the book with a harsh clap and slamming it down on his desk. “I didn’t want to admit it.”

Armitage folds his hands primly in his lap, covering the line of the pad underneath his trousers as he asks, stoic: “What am I to do now, Commandant?”

Brendol laughs, something sinister and unpleasant that promises a threat of pain. “I should get rid of you, boy. Sell you off to a good mate for a solid price, have the problem off my hands for good. But  _ my  _ commanding officer has said otherwise.” 

Armitage’s mind flits, briefly, to Grand Admiral Rae Sloane; the savior of his childhood, an admired commander in the Order’s ranks. He licks his lips, wanting to speak.

“You could be,” Brendol continued, “a useful bargaining chip. A strong political asset, to be entered into a union of  _ purpose.”  _

The condescending tone winds its way around Armitage, keeping him stiff and locked in place, even as his thighs continue to clench with the demand of his unsated body. Closing his eyes, he is only briefly grateful for the partial-sedative still easing through his system, allowing him to keep whatever there is of himself instead of giving into the disgusting,  _ primitive  _ urges of his Omega body.

“You are to be removed from the Academy, effective immediately,” Brendol states, “and then you will return home until I have figured out what to do with you.”

“I understand, sir.” Armitage nods, frightened, though he refuses to let the emotion overwhelm his face. He grabs for his bag, tucking the clap closed as he stands, turns around. “I will collect my things.”

“See to it that you do.”

 

* * *

 

 

Armitage is only fifteen when he grows to hate being an Omega, grows to  _ loathe  _ his impuissant, undesirable body and the way in which it works. For a week out of every two months, he is forced to endure a crushing, soul-splintering pain, complete with feverish delirium, nervous shaking and a demanding desire to be  _ filled,  _ kept and bred and owned by an Alpha--

It is not something he has ever wanted. 

He knows Alphas, and he knows them well. His father is an Alpha, like the snobbish, irate Cadets still in the Academy, who taunted him with slurs when they groped at his lithe body, sneering at his  _ sad  _ state of being.

_ “Poor little Omega,”  _ they called him, “ _ filthy slut, crying out for a knot, weak, tiny, useless Armitage--” _

“Not so useless anymore,” he told himself, haughty as he glanced across the open expanse of an elaborate ballroom, the walls lined by dull portraits and spiraling white-gold columns. Brendol is on the other side of the door, chatting with some unknown connection of his, and Armitage turns his chin up, wrinkles his nose at the lecherous look which the man’s son gives him from his own position across the hallway.

He may be an Omega, but he is hardly going to roll over and tilt his neck to whatever Alpha passes by.

At nineteen years of age, Armitage is smart enough to know what he wants. He is smart enough to realize--no, to understand--that the universe is cruel. That people like him, the third sex, the lower class, do not get to have happy endings. Because an Omega’s life is not their own; it belongs solely to a  _ mate,  _ a partner that would keep him chained to a bed with his legs spread if they got their way. 

When his mother tucked his hair behind his ear and kissed his cheek and  _ promised  _ him that he would grow up to be the most powerful man in the universe, she was lying. Any sympathy he has earned is nothing more than a misguided attempt to make him feel better about his lack of worth… his  _ licentiousness.  _

He has gone through years of rejecting suitors and snubbing advances even as his body yearned to splay across a fine bed and stuff himself full with an Alpha’s knot, prioritizing cognition over biology as anyone with half a mind knows best to do. And so, as the boy across from him stands, smirking, to move closer to Armitage and slide a hand about his petite waist, he hardly thinks before he’s pressing a hand against the Alpha’s chest, halting him in his tracks.

“You’re to be my mate,” the boy tells him, and Armitage smiles, tilts his head to the side with a cruel look in his eye.

“I don’t think so.”

Brendol can bring him to as many suitors as he wishes-- unless he is willing to hold Armitage down himself, he will not take a mate. He refuses; refuses to become a plaything for the incompetent men of the Order, refuses to be a pawn for political trade and favor.

He tells himself, again, that even if the universe hates him, he will seize it by the throat and throw it at his feet. A galaxy, bowed before an Omega emperor, one who has been subjected to abuse and slander beyond even the dreams of most. Who has endured touch after touch, prying fingers slid against the curve of his ass and heads pressed into the crook of his neck, the smack of an open palm against his face and hands seizing his arms to bind them over his head, leaving him to fuck himself against a replica knot in a heat chamber, his rampant pheromones  _ tainting  _ everything around him.

Armitage Hux is nineteen and he is already more self-aware than the rest of the galaxy.

 

* * *

 

 

Brendol Hux is sixty-two when he dies in his sleep, unsuspecting that his throat will be slit by the very son he treated as an object. 

Armitage enjoys the way his eyes flash with terror when they finally open to fall upon the  _ beautiful, effeminate  _ face he’d always scorned. He thrashes, twisting against the sheets and clutching at his throat, spurting a stream of red across his fine white sheets like paint on a canvas.

“A-Armi--tage--” the  _ bastard  _ gasps, raising his hand as if to strike his lowly  _ bitch  _ of a son once more, falling short when a blade slides deep into his wrist, pinning his arm against the bed. Armitage leans over him, hisses into his ear.

“Who is the weak one  _ now,  _ Brendol?”

Brendol stutters, hisses, but he cannot speak with severed vocal cords, and his struggling seizes as Armitage shoves the hilt of his knife into the man’s mouth, muffling him with a short cry.

He has hardly seen anything more beautiful in the galaxy than the sight of his father choking on his own blood.

 

* * *

 

 

On the planet of Nar Shaddaa, a man walks into a bar.

His helmet, a new addition to an otherwise familiar garb, sits firmly in place over his face, glinting beneath the fluorescent, neon lights sparking overhead. Clad entirely in black, he walks with a ferocity that is only unusual because of its insecurity; demanding and yet impulsive, an amateur to the ways of the galaxy outside of the main sector of the Core Worlds and the underground caverns in which he has trained.

He has only just stepped inside when he sees the beautiful glint of red-gold hair, a fine, elegant robe of silver and blue shimmersilk adorning the lines of a smooth body. The man sits with his legs crossed, impervious to both the chaos of the fight across the bar and the hungry watch of lowlife Alphas behind his back.

The man turns his head-- flawless, pale as gentry, a smile that doesn’t reach his eyes. His gaze does not meet that of Kylo Ren, but it doesn’t matter in the end.

He is still the most beautiful sight the young Knight has ever seen.

And then he turns, sliding a datachip out from the hem of the fabric crossing his chest, waving it before Kylo in a manner too amused to be unpracticed. “Kylo Ren, was it?”

“Yes,” the word transmits through his vocodor, deep and imposing. “Are you my contact?”

“It would seem that way.” He sets the chip on the counter, only allowing Kylo a side glance as he frowned, lip curling in distaste. “Everything your master asked for is on that chip, you know. So please, try not to lose it, will you?”

Kylo’s temper flares, insulted by the trivial remark and the nonchalance with which it was delivered.

“Do you think me so  _ stupid--” _

“Now, now.” His contact smirks. “Don’t be so uncouth.”

Kylo seizes his hair with a bandaged fist, surprised when a gloved hand grasps his arm in return, clearly nervous but...

Not afraid. Not  _ scared.  _

“I thought Snoke wanted an alliance with the Order,” came the soft reply. “Not an unnecessary conflict. Do be careful, Ren-”

“And who are  _ you  _ to be so brazen? An  _ omega,  _ sitting at a cantina in Nar Shaddaa-- anyone with eyes can tell what you want. What you’re  _ desperate for-” _

Warning, nails dig into the fabric of Kylo’s robes, the Omega raising a manicured brow in response. “I’m a man with a  _ lot  _ of contacts, Lord Ren. If I were you, I would watch my words  _ very carefully. _ ”

Turning himself in the chair, the Omega uncrossed his legs, the heel of his silver-plated boots making a faint click against the tile as he brushes hair out of his eyes. His glare never falls on Kylo, only on the image surrounding him, other sentients, Twi’lek dancers and bad mannered smugglers.

“Wait!” Kylo reaches for him, his voice cracking even under the cover of his helmet. “Thank you for the… information.”

“It was my pleasure.” Jade eyes drop to the cowl still around Kylo’s neck, then settle upon his helmet, cold and unfeeling. “Have a nice evening.”

 

* * *

 

 

It is only five years later, when Kylo encounters the beautiful,  _ powerful  _ man once more, this time in the interrogation room of an Imperial starship, that he learns the other’s name.

Armitage Hux.

The manipulative, spiteful,  _ murderous  _ Omega he has dreamed about since their first meeting. 

His future mate-- Armitage Hux, the bounty hunter who is after his head.


End file.
